


Denial

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: Nights aren't kind to Tommy – Alfie has never seen him like this. He decides to act on instinct, for want of any better plan. It usually gets him by.





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Set around the end of series 3. AU where Tommy and Alfie are in some sort of developing relationship, not that either of them has fully owned up to that yet.

Alfie is having a strange dream….he’s in a car, driving down a very long track towards a deserted looking farm. He can feel his hands vibrating as he grips the wheel – although the road isn’t particularly bumpy. And then he thinks that perhaps it isn’t the road after all, maybe the ground itself is moving. He stops the car, steps out and now he can feel the tremors beneath his feet; it’s making him feel distinctly uneasy. Slowly, consciousness claws at him until he realises that he isn’t dreaming, the tremors are real, the bed is in fact shuddering. He turns his head to look at his sleeping companion and sighs deeply as he takes in the not unfamiliar sight of Tommy, fast asleep and shivering violently. It’s not particularly cold, and he isn’t ill, at least he wasn’t a few hours ago, so it’s another nightmare. _Fucks sake_ , he thinks, this is what I get for letting him go to sleep on an argument.

It’s the worst argument they’ve had since they started … well, whatever it is they’ve started. They haven’t put any labels on the arrangement … friends who fuck? Business with benefits? It’s not like they haven’t argued before now, almost impossible not to when you’re dealing with Tommy Shelby. The man’s so guarded, so wary of giving away power that he’s almost _begging_ Alfie to wind him up, push ‘is buttons, so yeah, they’ve had a few tetchy moments. But that’s half the fun of the whole situation – Tommy is as sharp as a knife, has built an empire out of nothing, and whilst Alfie can’t help but admire that he can’t help but provoke Tommy either, the feisty reaction he gets is more than worth it. They’re a fair match, so he doesn’t feel guilty. They're both outcasts in a way, both men on the extremes of society, and perhaps that’s why Alfie enjoys their interactions more than he probably has any right to. That and the eerie beauty of the man of course…well Alfie can’t help it if he’s got _eyes_ for fucks sake.

They’ve both been engineering more reasons to talk, to meet, to share dinner than is strictly necessary for business, until several months down the line they’re seeing each other most weeks, one way or another, and more often than not ending up in bed. Yeah, things have worked out very nicely Alfie thinks. So when Tommy started avoiding calls and failing to turn up to meetings (some of them actually legitimate business dealings) Alfie found himself disturbingly riled. Well, perhaps more disturbed than riled if he really analyses it. Because arrogant and infuriating as the little man is, there’s also something strangely vulnerable and needy about him that Alfie is drawn to and that, yeah, might occasionally keep him awake at night. Because Tommy has enemies at every fuckin’ turn – Russians, Italians – and a history of getting himself into near-death experiences when left to his own devices.

If there’s one thing Alfie Solomons doesn’t like it’s not knowing where he stands. So this evening, after a month without contact and a very bad-tempered day at the bakery, Alfie decided to hell with everything, got in his car and drove straight to Warwickshire. He wanted to know what the _fuck_ was going on. He’s not sure what he was expecting exactly, just to check things out with his own two eyes. See Tommy in one piece. Be told to fuck off perhaps. What he’d found, after the indecently long drive, was Tommy sitting in his ridiculously large study, apparently totally _fine_ and un-fucking-perturbed. Just sat with that infuriatingly aloof look on his face, eyebrows raised in a silent question, like Alfie Solomons hadn’t just appeared in his house, out of thin air, at 11 o’clock at night, and was in fact some tiresome underling come to waste his time.

Somehow Alfie had managed to contain the unusual mixture of relief and fury boiling in his chest, had thrown his arms in the air and expressed exaggerated surprise that Tommy was alive, well and apparently equipped with a perfectly _fucking_ functioning telephone. It’s not like the long drive to Birmingham puts a man in the calmest of moods – bad for the back, and the eyes, driving in the dark like that – so yeah, Alfie might just have lost it when Tommy offered no explanation, no apology, just that cold, hard facade. There was shouting on both sides then, Alfie sarcastically apologising for _giving a fuck_ , Tommy yelling that he doesn’t answer to Alfie. Alfie countering that it’s not about answering to anyone, just about some common _fuckin_ ’ courtesy, mate. Alfie had said some pretty awful things then, about Tommy being a selfish bastard...fucked in the head...incapable of any genuine emotion.

And instead of retaliating, Tommy had just retrenched into a livid silence. He was worked up though, Alfie could tell, which was strangely satisfying. Tommy might fool most people, but not Alfie. Alfie could see the barely controlled emotion, shoulders exaggeratedly broad, hardened against the tremors that he was working so hard to suppress. And the way he glared at Alfie like a man possessed – slamming back a large whisky, banging his glass down on the desk and refilling it before aggressively throwing back another. And another. And a- _fucking_ -nother. It would have been childish, if it wasn’t so self-destructive. And that’s what really got Alfie’s goat, even though he knew it was an act of defiance. He could see it in the way Tommy maintained eye contact throughout - hard and cold and challenging – as if daring him to give a shit, to _do_ something about it.

If he’s honest, Alfie could see everything was not completely fine with Tommy. There was something behind the dark circles and the cold stare that he was trying to drown in whisky. And maybe Alfie can admit that now that the red fucking mist has died down, but at the time he’d been so goddamn angry he’d told Tommy to go ahead and fucking drink himself to death. Might ‘ave thrown a few things too … books, an ashtray … pleased when Tommy looked shocked as he ducked to avoid them. Alfie hadn’t trusted himself to hang around after that, had stormed out of the study, yelling that he’d find himself a guest room to sleep in – _cause you’ve clearly got enough of ‘em_ – and be gone by first light, no need to worry about the maids, no need to say another fuckin’ _word_ to me, mate. Cause it was late, right? Couldn’t drive back to London at that hour…

To be perfectly honest Alfie is surprised to see Tommy in bed at all, imagining he’d have drunk himself into a stupor downstairs and passed out on the sofa... or the floor. But it appears he swallowed his pride enough to come upstairs and not only find which room Alfie was in, but then get into bed with him. It’s unusual that; Tommy overcoming his natural instinct to close in on himself…more than unusual in fact, pretty remarkable. Alfie can’t help but wonder what is going on inside Tommy’s head.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the realisation that the shuddering next to him very definitely isn’t stopping. He watches Tommy, curled on his side, right on the edge of the bed, as far away as possible. His breathing is ragged and too fast and his teeth are chattering now too, Alfie can hear them behind the hands that Tommy has brought up to cover his face. He lies there, watching and waiting and hoping that the nightmare subsides, willing the demons to let Tommy be because despite everything, he fucking cares about the man, alright? But then the dreadful, low whining starts – Alfie’s heard that before and he cannot bear it – it’s the sound of a wounded animal and it reaches straight to the pit of his stomach and twists there. Whatever happened earlier, it’s impossible to feel angry with Tommy in this state; he moves towards the middle of the bed and reaches a hand across – shaking him gently but firmly.

“Shhhh Tommy, s’just a dream.” Despite the fact he is covered in sweat, he feels cold to the touch, so Alfie pulls the blanket up over him. He’s not sure exactly how to play this, he finds it incredible that someone as disciplined and controlled as Thomas Shelby is so powerless against his own brain in the middle of the night. A couple of times Alfie has managed to soothe him with words, shush him back to sleep without Tommy fully waking. Everything’s easier that way, because then Tommy doesn’t even know about it in the morning, doesn’t need to admit to the perceived weakness. And Alfie has never mentioned it. Other times, when Tommy has woken wide-eyed and panting, Alfie has, to his shame, pretended to be asleep. Well … less awkward than confronting it, isn’t it? And it’s not like Tommy’s ever opened up to him about this shit. S’probably something he should address, but it’s not gonna help him now.

Tonight, Tommy’s too far under to wake and that low whining noise just continues, like an air raid siren, getting louder and more urgent and more desperate. Alfie sighs and shuffles closer, tries again to calm Tommy, to hold him close so he can feel Alfie’s warmth. Wrong fucking move apparently, because before he sees it coming, there are arms and legs flying at him, kicking his shins, flailing at his chest and neck, fighting him off violently. The whine turns into muttering, frantic and incomprehensible. Alfie pulls away but not quite in time to stop Tommy clawing his face, drawing blood. For _fucks_ sake. _Right, no more pussy-footing around,_ _he’s gonna do one of us a serious bloody injury in a minute._

Alfie might be the larger man, is almost certainly stronger, but Tommy is tough and wiry and right now, absolutely fucking terrified – fighting like an animal in a trap. Alfie decides that brute force is his best option and with some trouble manages to clamp the smaller man’s arms to his sides, wrapping him in a ferocious bear hug. He uses all of his weight to pin him to the mattress, then wraps one thigh over the flailing legs and growls,

“Wake up, Tommy, wake up, you’re safe.” He forces his chin into Tommy’s shoulder, applying enough pressure to reduce the struggling, “I’ve got you, you’re safe, you’re in bed,” he says, mouth nestling by his left ear. “I’ve got you Tommy, wake up. You’re safe,” just repeating the same shit, like a mantra, whilst maintaining the vice-like grip. After a couple of minutes, he feels Tommy begin to still beneath him, which quite honestly is a fucking relief because Alfie’s getting a bit old for sudden middle-of-the-night fisticuffs – his arm muscles are quivering from the force of restraining this terror-wracked man – and adrenaline is surging through his bloodstream. It must be 2am. What is he even doing here? What has he got himself into? He should probably just get up, get in his car and drive home, leave this mess of a man to his own devices and get on with his life. But he knows he won’t because … well, it may have snuck up on him but he fucking cares doesn’t he? And whilst Tommy would never admit it, he needs looking after, and who else is gonna do it? Not his family … they’re all too busy following his orders, or just too plain scared of him. Then again, they don’t see this side of him, do they? How hard he battles to control the demons, the despair.

He moves one hand up to cradle Tommy’s head, shushing him and muttering soothing words. It seems to work, and as the struggling lessens and the heaving breaths slow down, he wills him to just go back to sleep … or stay asleep ... he’s not even sure whether Tommy’s conscious right now. If they’re gonna keep doing whatever it is they’re doing then they can’t keep ignoring this whole thing, he knows that. Maybe he’ll try and bring it up tomorrow, when the sun’s up and everything feels a bit calmer. For now he just rocks Tommy gently, holds him close and strokes his head. It’s how he imagines you’d soothe a child, not that Alfie has any experience of such things, but for all his immense capability and power, Tommy is like a child in some ways. Alfie wonders whether anyone ever held him like this when he was a kid. Perhaps if they had he wouldn’t find affection so difficult now, would be able to admit when he needs it. Alfie just wants him to feel safe, to settle and sleep in Alfie’s arms. It’s not too much to ask is it?

But it’s not to be. He settles a little, but he certainly doesn’t sleep. Instead, Alfie hears a sob crack deep within Tommy’s chest, in fact he doesn’t so much _hear_ it as _feel_ it, like something fundamental has physically snapped against his ribcage. And it’s followed by another… and another… Alfie is so disconcerted that it takes him a moment to realise that Tommy is fucking _weeping_ against him, tears soaking his bare chest. And fucking hell this is _bad_ – this is _unprecedented_ – what the fuck is Alfie supposed to do now? It’s as though every pent up emotion Tommy’s been suppressing for the past few weeks has risen to the surface and is pouring out; like the nightmare was a catalyst, and now the lid is off and there’s a whole well of god-knows-what just flooding out behind. Probably the same emotions that caused him to clam up and disappear in the first place. _Silly boy_ , Alfie thinks, _stupid, pent-up, uncommunicative man-child_. Why can’t he just tell Alfie how he’s feeling? Why does he have to bottle it all up and then fucking fall apart in the middle of the night like this? Leaving Alfie to deal with it. Like Alfie knows anything at all about looking after anyone.

Alfie kisses the soft hair on top of his head and keeps a firm grip around him, letting him cry. All he can think about is how totally out of character this is, how Tommy is gonna _hate_ this when he realises what he's doing. He never willingly reveals weakness. Maybe Alfie should feel flattered – or privileged or something – to have been granted this glimpse into the darkest recesses of Tommy’s mind. But it’s not like it was conscious is it? They were both fucking _asleep_ when this whole melt-down started and even now Tommy seems totally lost. All in all it’s a pretty fucking awful state of affairs Alfie decides – watching someone you care about in this state – not understanding the cause and not knowing whether they even want you there. Like that realisation is going to help him in any way.

So Alfie just holds Tommy for a long time, whispering apologies about the stupid argument and stroking his head. He doesn’t get much reaction, Tommy seems utterly lost in his own pain… although he isn’t struggling free either. Which is something. He could never hold Tommy like this in the cold light of day Alfie realises. He just wouldn’t accept it, couldn't admit to needing something as comforting and human as a fucking hug. Which is a shame, because Alfie would like that, for Tommy to just open up occasionally, accept a bit of tenderness. So he decides to try and enjoy the sensation of just holding this beautiful, lonely creature. It doesn’t work. Turns out it’s nigh on impossible to enjoy anything when said creature appears to be disintegrating in your arms. God knows how Tommy is going to react when he comes round from this … he’ll probably be mortified and run a fucking mile, shut Alfie out for good. That’d be about right.

The thing is, Tommy doesn’t show any signs of coming round whatsoever and Alfie starts to worry that’s he’s actually fucking broken. He’s been sobbing for what feels like half an hour, openly, unashamedly, just curled into Alfie’s body like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. His hands are digging into Alfie’s back too, he isn’t sure when that happened, but they’re gripping his flesh so tightly it actually hurts. Another ten minutes of the same passes and Alfie starts to think he’s going to have to do _something_. Anything. He can’t just keep this up all night. _Enough is enough you bloody hazard of a human-being_.

“That’s enough Tommy,” he says gently, stroking him. “That’s enough tears for one night, yeah?” He waits a couple of minutes for a reaction, but Tommy doesn’t stop, maybe slows down a little, but doesn’t stop. Right … now Alfie is getting a bit tired of the self-destruction.

“I said, that’s enough,” he repeats in a stronger voice, surprising himself with the harshness of his tone. But he still can’t tell if he’s getting through, so he reaches his hands down to cup Tommy’s puffy face, forcibly pulling him out of his hiding place. He clamps his thumbs over Tommy’s temples and splays his fingers at the base of his skull – tilting his head up to face him. _Fuck_ he looks a mess.

“That is absolutely enough. Do you hear me?” he growls. He looks Tommy straight in the eye and jolts his head slightly with each syllable,

“I said enough.”

And that’s when he feels the shift, feels Tommy forcibly trying to regain some control. It takes him a couple of minutes, which isn’t a surprise given the distressing state he’s in, but when he finally does return Alfie’s gaze he is slightly taken aback. It’s not the mortified, cowering eyes he’s expecting to see – there is no shame, no search for escape in the blue irises. There’s something else there entirely. Tommy’s expression is _open_. Fuck, it’s so _fucking_ open. His face is swollen, wet with tears and mucous, lips parted, cheeks flushed… but he is looking up at Alfie with what can only be described as absolute reverence. It’s like all the barriers are down and he’s given up any pretence. He looks like a child waiting for his mother’s instruction. Innocent. Trusting. Adoring.

 _Oh fucking hell, so that’s what he responds to_ , thinks Alfie, _that’s what he needs_. And he can’t help it, arousal is stirring in him like a fire. Tommy wants to be _told_ what to do. And Alfie wants to fucking tell him. He wants to take this broken, trusting creature and do shameful things to him that will make him forget the nightmares, forget the tunnels, forget his own fucking _name_. Wants to make him feel everything…so that he feels nothing else…just him and Alfie and here and now.

Alfie takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes momentarily. He needs to stay in control here. He could fucking _defile_ him right this fucking second but he can’t ignore how broken he looks and ... fuck ... he can’t be responsible for breaking him more. Not now anyway, not tonight when he’s just completely fallen apart. Tomorrow, maybe…

He doesn’t know how to play this. It’s like Tommy is in some form of trance, strangely pliant and submissive. He doesn’t want to jolt him out of this state, make those barriers fly back up, but he wants to get through to Tommy somehow, to make him feel better, to make him feel safe. “On your back, eh?” he says gently, loosening his grip and watching in awe as Tommy rolls over obediently. It’s like he’s a completely different human being from the one he argued with earlier this evening – no trace of obstruction or obstinacy. Alfie is intrigued and concerned in almost equal measure, if he knew the man was damaged before (because let’s face it, that much was always obvious) he really hadn’t appreciated quite how much. He doesn’t even know the full extent of what’s going on, what’s caused him to clam up on Alfie, what’s brought the nightmares on so badly, what made him come and find Alfie.

He does know that Thomas Shelby has just fucking dissolved in his arms and now it’s almost like he doesn’t know where he is or what to do. The responsibility of dealing with this is totally overwhelming, so Alfie decides to just act on instinct, it usually serves him well, he can figure out what’s really going on later. And instinct tells him to reassure Tommy, to ground him, as though he might just float away otherwise. So he climbs onto him, taking each of his hands and pushing them into the mattress above his head. He covers Tommys entire body with his own – conscious of every point at which they are pressed together – fingers, forearms, chest, stomach, thighs. He feels his weight pressing into Tommy, heavy and warm, feels Tommy’s hipbones slotting together with his own. The strange thing is that it feels so right, the way they fit together. His feelings for Tommy are starting to run too deep, and he’s no idea whether they’re reciprocated because it’s not like Tommy ever volunteers his own emotions. There’s too much at stake, but strangely, Alfie finds that he doesn’t really care at the moment. It seems irrelevant, Tommy needs him and he is here and they are going to deal with this.

“I didn’t drag you out of that nightmare only to drown yourself in fucking tears now, did I?” he says seriously. Tommy just stares up at him through glazed eyes, swallowing visibly. Alfie pushes himself up on his hands creating a little distance so that he can take a better look at the man beneath him, eyes roaming from the upturned wrists across the swollen face, the damp collarbones and back to those mesmerised eyes. And it is unbelievably tempting to take advantage of him in this state – he looks like he’d let Alfie do _anything_ to him right now for fuck’s sake – and Alfie wants him _so_ badly. But even more than that he realises … which is an admission in itself … he wants him to come back from wherever he is, wants him to be _alright_.

“Stay here,” Alfie rasps, an idea coming to him. He leans down slowly to plant a soft kiss on Tommy’s forehead before shifting himself off the bed. He sees a flicker of panic in Tommy’s eyes as he moves, as if he’s scared Alfie is leaving, and that just isn’t right, is it? He pauses, looking at him intently, and tries to reassure him “I won’t be a minute OK? I’ll be right back, right _fuckin_ ’ back. You just stay there, just like that.”

When he returns a couple of minutes later with a bowl of water and washcloths, Tommy hasn’t moved a muscle. He is still laying there, hands above his head, palms turned upward, _exactly_ where Alfie left him. Alfie feels his heart flutter in his chest…and he’s not even sure whether it’s out of concern or…some other emotion…he’s not sure what the hell is happening to him if the truth be told. He cups Tommy’s face with one hand and proceeds to clean the tear tracks from his cheeks with the warm cloth. He moves slowly, not wanting to startle him as he moves the damp curls from his face and sweeps the cloth across his forehead. He rinses the cloth, squeezes it out and very carefully brings it up to wipe each eye, brushing down gently over those long, dark lashes. Tommy closes his eyes as he does that, and then keeps them closed while Alfie cleans his mouth and nose, doing his best to erase the evidence of his tears. He looks a little better at least, Alfie thinks, as he pauses to thumb at the soft lower lip.

He wipes Tommy’s throat, his collar bones, his chest – drinking in every inch of the pale skin, every freckle, every scar. He doesn’t know what he’s doing really, or why he’s doing it – just that it feels like taking care of Tommy and he likes the ritual. It’s almost silent in the room, an owl hoots outside, but otherwise there is just the faint sound of breathing and of water being wrung from the cloth. He takes each arm in turn, wiping from shoulder to wrist and bringing each hand down to rest limply on the bed. Tommy shivers slightly under his touch as he dries everywhere he’s cleaned with a fresh cloth. He marvels at how calm and still and pliant Tommy is – eyes meekly following Alfie as he moves – no trace of his usual tightly wound, defiant self. And yeah, Alfie is _savouring_ this. He might never get the chance again.

As if motivated by that very thought, he leans down and starts to kiss all the places he’s just wiped – forehead, eyelids, throat, collarbones. Fuck those collarbones _do_ things to him and he hears himself hum in appreciation against Tommy’s skin. He kisses each shoulder before slowly moving down his chest, pausing to suck gently at one nipple. At that he gets a response, hears Tommy’s breath hitch quietly as he licks over the hardening nub. So he does it again, then moves to the other side and repeats the process, listening to Tommy’s breathing hasten slightly. He presses a line of kisses down his stomach until he reaches the top of the shorts. He looks up to Tommy’s dazed face as he hooks his fingers underneath the waistband and pulls. Tommy isn’t resisting, not exactly helping either, and he knows he has to go slowly, carefully, gradually, as he tugs the underwear down and slides it down his legs. Tommy gives a small kick when they reach his ankles and helps them off. Alfie pauses, looking down at the now naked man and back up to his face – finding only the same unguarded, innocent look.

He proceeds to lick and suck his way up both thighs, smiling inwardly when he gets to the top and finds Tommy hard, as hard as Alfie himself now is. Maybe this will be ok. Maybe this will bring him back. He reaches into the bedside drawer for oil. He settles down to the task of opening Tommy up, determined to go slowly … achingly slowly … because it’s been a few weeks and he wants to remind Tommy how good this is … how well they work together … how amazing it feels. Maybe physical pleasure can overcome whatever mental trauma he's dealing with. It's worth a try. Alfie shifts Tommy's legs apart with his shoulders and starts by licking softly at the tight hole, cupping his balls and wetly lapping, letting Tommy get used to the feeling. After a while he dips inside, breaching the rings of muscle with his well-practiced tongue. He’s amazed at how tight it feels, so he’s even gentler than usual as he pushes one well-oiled finger inside. Somehow, it feels momentous, his finger moving slowly, slickly, in and out, in and out, not even reaching for that sensitive spot, holding back from that moment, not sure if Tommy is able to take it yet.

It’s disconcerting, because Tommy is just letting him do whatever he wants, isn’t moving, isn’t pushing back into him, isn’t making a sound. He’s going so carefully … as though Tommy is made of fine glass that might shatter at any moment. His earlier impulse to absolutely wreck him has completely vanished, replaced by a desire to…what…look after him? Mend him? Worship him? Some strange combination of all those things perhaps – all he knows is that he wants to make him feel good, wants to push those demons so far out of his mind that he can only concentrate on the pleasure Alfie is giving him, with no space for anything else.

He shifts up the bed and wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, holding him close as he eventually adds a second finger, feeling Tommy slowly stretch around the intrusion. He watches his face for reactions, frowning when Tommy clenches his eyes shut, concerned by the uncharacteristic silence. Usually Alfie would be talking all the way through this, asking how it feels, if it’s good. And Tommy would be making the little noises that drive Alfie absolutely wild – obscene and sinful and greedy. But Alfie isn’t talking now and it doesn’t seem like Tommy is capable of responding, of communicating anything much at all. _Maybe he should stop_? He pauses, holding his fingers in place until, after a few moments, Tommy swallows and opens his eyes again, gazes back at him. He looks OK, a little confused maybe. Alfie strokes his prostate, rubbing just once over the bundle of nerves to see if that elicits anything close to a regular reaction. He is relieved when he watches Tommy’s eyes roll back in his head in silent pleasure – that’s as close to a normal reaction as Tommy seems capable of tonight. He continues, slowly growing in confidence, rubbing and curling and circling his fingers inside, kissing Tommy’s face gently as he does so, feeling him start to writhe in response.

After what feels like an age, he manoeuvres himself carefully until he’s pressing his hard cock gently against Tommy’s entrance, warning him of what's to come. He looks down and tilts his head to one side, a question without words – because neither of them has said anything in a very long time. Tommy is looking at him like a startled deer, eyes wide and innocent, almost like he doesn't know what's coming or they’ve never done this before. When he still says nothing at all, Alfie starts to worry, because usually he’d be telling Alfie to fucking _move_ by now, impatient and needy. But then Tommy lifts his head, opens his mouth and reaches up for Alfie’s lips, straining his neck to kiss him because for some reason he still hasn’t moved his fucking arms, which lie limply next to him, where Alfie left them. And Alfie takes that as an affirmation, as permission.

Returning the kiss he forces Tommy’s head back down to the pillow and simultaneously pushes himself inside in one strong, very slow but unforgiving motion. He doesn't pause or give Tommy time to adjust because he wants him to feel the intensity of this … to be really present. If the strained mewling sound Tommy now lets out into his mouth is anything to go by, it is working. He has to stop because honestly, that _sound_ makes Alfie feels like he could fucking _explode_. But Tommy is so hot and tight and rigid he’s suddenly worried that it’s too much – whilst at the same time he _wants_ it to be too much.

He’s buried as deep as he can go now and they are not moving, just quivering, like they’re waiting on the brink of something incredibly important. He waits while Tommy adjusts, feeling him clench and release around his shaft, letting out small whimpers against Alfie's lips. Eventually he seems to relax, licking into Alfie's mouth, sucking at his tongue, responding. And with that Alfie kisses him back, pulling out almost completely before fucking back in … slowly … deliberately … forcefully, wanting Tommy to feel every inch. And Tommy takes him back in, his mouth falling open as Alfie drives deeper, forcing the breath out of him.

Alfie does it over and over again – until every long, slow thrust is being met with an equally long, low groan from Tommy. He could do this all night...wonders why he ever bothers doing anything else. It is absolutely killing Alfie, the way Tommy looks so completely overwhelmed, like he can’t take much more, and Alfie wants to keep him like that, just exactly like that. Maybe it’s cruel to enjoy seeing Tommy so pliant and overwrought – struggling to take every slow, sweet, perfectly-aimed stroke – but Alfie can’t bring himself to stop watching. It’s always Tommy’s reactions that get him, and he is arching into it now, rising to meet Alfie, fisting the sheets. And Alfie wants him to feel it, really feel it, to feel the weight of Alfie’s wanting, to feel _owned_. So he leans back and pulls Tommy’s knees up, pressing first one, then the other against his chest and leaning back down, using his weight to lock them there. He maintains the same long, slow thrusts but now it’s even deeper … and he doesn’t relent even when Tommy starts to moan, _really_ fucking moan, just keeps going. When Tommy tips his head back, bares his throat, keening desperately, Alfie feels like a lion looming over a kill – he could fucking _devour_ him.

“Look at you,” he whispers, unable to contain his thoughts any longer, “ _listen_ to you...so fucking beautiful.” He wants Tommy to know, however much he hates hearing it. He’s dangerously close to confessing something, he’s not sure what exactly, but he just wants Tommy to feel good, whole, wanted. He knows he might fuck everything up now, but he’s not thinking clearly anymore and the words are spilling out of him like he’s swallowed a fucking truth serum.

“Can’t bear seeing you upset like that … just let me make you feel good, forget everything” he pants, “you deserve to feel good. So fucking good. I am gonna keep doing this until you believe it." He continues with the same intense, languorous thrusts, almost threatening in his relentlessness. "Don’t care if it takes all night.” 

“You deserve to feel good, Tommy. Say it to me.” Because he just wants him to fucking acknowledge it.

“Fucking _say_ it,” he pleads. He should stop talking, he knows it’s too much, and right on cue Tommy throws his arm over his eyes and stutters,

“I can’t…Alfie…stop…” his voice sounds shaky, hoarse, “please…don’t…” he almost sobs and Alfie panics, he didn’t mean to upset him again, him and his stupid _fucking_ mouth.

And it’s typical really, that Tommy can take being fucked like this, slowly, tortuously, for well over an hour, but he can’t take the words. And Alfie knew that didn't he? Why did he push it? Why didn't he just shut the _fuck_ up?

“S’alright, I’ve got you, I’m sorry,” he says, shifting his weight to release Tommy's knees, wrapping both arms underneath him and hugging him hard. He uses one hand to pull the back of Tommy's head into his own neck, horrified when he feels tears against his skin again.

“Sorry, don’t have to say anything Tommy, don't have to say anything at all. Just wanted you to know yeah? I'm a fucking idiot. Please, _please_ don't cry,” he begs. "Just let me make you feel good, OK?" 

And Tommy nods against him, it’s a small movement, barely perceptible really, but Alfie takes it as a yes, finally, finally picking up the pace, fucking harder and with more intent than he has for the past hour, like he’s actually got a destination in mind now.

“It’s ok, I’ve got you, just stay with me” he says, snapping his hips faster, cradling Tommy’s head, holding him close as he hits that sweet spot over and over. He wants to fuck the self-loathing right out of Tommy, make him feel so fucking good he can’t breathe, let alone cry, any more. He is so focused on that goal that it takes him a moment to realise what’s happening when he feels hot liquid spurting between their tightly closed bodies…Tommy’s head pressing so hard into his shoulder it hurts. He hasn’t even laid a finger on Tommy’s cock and yet he’s coming, hard, gasping desperately and gripping hold of Alfie. And as he fucks him through it, it’s Alfie’s turn to feel overwhelmed…a strange sensation is coursing through him, like a mixture of lust and rage, a fierce desire to protect this fragile human being in his arms. Tommy clenches hard around Alfie as he rides out the spasms of his orgasm, sending Alfie over the edge as he does so.

Alfie collapses after that, utterly exhausted from the marathon of exertion, unable to hold himself up any longer. He is aware that beneath him Tommy is trembling all over and still clinging on to him, like a drowning man might grip a life raft. Alfie can’t breathe, needs him to let go, but Alfie’s needs are secondary right now, that much is clear.

“S’alright, Tommy” he mumbles into his neck, hugging him back, trying to ground him. “Shhhh, I gotcha.” He slumps down to one side, pulling the smaller man across his body, careful to maintain the closeness as he reaches down to pull the blanket over them. “I gotcha,” he says again. When he feels the trembling start to lessen, he loosens one arm enough to stroke lazy circles into Tommy’s back. He continues to murmur comforting words, sensing that Tommy needs help to come down from wherever the fuck he is right now. Well, this much Alfie is good at, muttering and hugging… the miracle is that Tommy is letting him.

Eventually, when he feels calmer, stiller in Alfie’s arms, Alfie dares to lean over to the bedside table to retrieve the cloth from earlier. He looks down between their bodies and opens enough space between them to wipe up the worst of the mess across their stomachs, between Tommy's legs. Tommy seems strangely at ease despite the intimacy of the act, letting Alfie clean him for the second time that night. All Alfie wants right now is to keep him here, safe and warm. He looks down at Tommy’s exhausted face and tilts his chin up with one finger.

“Alright?” he asks softly. “Think you can sleep for a couple of hours?” Because if he’s ever seen anyone in more desperate need of sleep, he can’t remember when. Tommy looks at him carefully, then raises a hand to Alfie’s cheek, running his fingers over the gouge mark he left earlier.

“Did I …?” he trails off, looking distinctly confused.

“S’nothing, doesn’t matter,” Alfie interupts, clasping Tommy’s hand and pulling it away from the wound. He places the hand on his chest, over his heart, holding it gently. He feels his own breathing slow down, his eyelids droop. Then he hears Tommy whisper his name hoarsely,

“Alfie.”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t go.” He looks back down…just to make sure he’s heard him correctly.

“…at first light,” Tommy continues, brows furrowed.

“With you curled into me, like this? I’m not going anywhere, love.”

“Love?” repeats Tommy, frowning.

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?” Alfie asks, “cause after what I’ve seen tonight, it’s pretty clear you need a bit of that.”

“Fuck off” Tommy says, very half-heartedly.

“Oh yeah, right. Well which is it then? Fuck off or don’t go? Cause now I am getting _confused,_ ” Alfie says irritably, “…love.”

Tommy huffs quietly, allowing his eyelids to close. He squeezes Alfie’s hand.

“Right, well. Good," grumbles Alfie. "But here’s the deal. I want some breakfast in the morning. And some fucking honesty alright?”

Maybe Tommy nods, maybe he doesn't. But before long they are both asleep.


End file.
